


Restoration

by h-uxed (disappearingcheshire)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 18th Century, Anal Sex, Baiting, Confessional Sex, Fixation, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Phux - Freeform, Punishment, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Denial, Self-Flagellation, Sexual Tension, Somnophilia, Voyeurism, aristocrat hux, corrupt monk kylo ren, creepy kylo, female tops, inappropriate use of catholic prayers and items, intentional misuse of roman catholic practices, phasma/bazine netal, phazine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disappearingcheshire/pseuds/h-uxed
Summary: In the age of Enlightenment, with the power of the Church diminished, Kylo Ren is tasked with returning a wayward Earl back to the path of righteousness. 
 “According to the Marquis, the boy is a wastrel and spendthrift. He is also a sodomite. Although he’s had numerous tutors, none have been able to produce results. I have assured his Lordship that you will not have the same dilemma.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ottenebrare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottenebrare/gifts).



> For ottenebrare, inspired by their [gorgeous art](https://ottenebrare.tumblr.com/post/150914647548/or-palette-challenge-kylux-7-baroque) for the prompt ‘baroque aristocrats’, which not only slayed me, but spiraled this whole idea into an actual thing. If you don't follow them, you definitely should! They're lovely, their art is lovely, and you won't be sorry. Also shout out to [topkyloren](http://topkyloren.tumblr.com/), who let me gush about this idea in their inbox and always supports my kylux, and [for-the-love-of-baldur](http://for-the-love-of-baldur.tumblr.com/), for their encouragement!

“You know,” Kylo begins, his voice low and smooth, “This room is the oldest in the abbey.”

His words bounce off the stone around them, creating a hollow resonance. The man tied to a chair doesn’t reply, his features set morosely.

“It’s the only section that wasn’t touched by the fires.” Unperturbed by his silent audience, the monk continues laying out tools on a table. They’re cast in various sizes, their dark shapes resting in an ominous row, “And the only one that hasn’t been rebuilt.”

The smell of old rock and stale air only serves to confirm Kylo’s assessment, as do the barren accommodations. Hidden below the church, the room is lit by a scattering of wall torches, its surfaces unadorned save for the thick metal rings bolted in at various places. There are a number of indecipherable stains on the floor and devices that the man visibly ignores, his eyes trained onto the empty space before him.

The monk smiles, the firelight caught in his gaze. “Almost everything here has remained the same for nearly five centuries.”

He trails long fingers over a lead sprinkler, silver and heavy, then a tongue prong. Tracing the handle of a whip, Kylo browses his options, before finally settling on a flaying knife, short and curved, “Back then, the Church took a heavier hand in its dealings with heretics.”

With a few concise motions, he lurches the man to his feet, forcing him towards the center of the room, where iron manacles hang from the ceiling. The man’s steps are fumbling, thrown off by the starvation and exhaustion of his imprisonment. Effortlessly, Kylo begins to transfer his wrists from one restraint to another, the man too weak to fight.

“Have you ever heard of _Ad extirpanda_?” The new position keeps the captive’s arms stretched from his sides, his body sagging as he’s placed in his new locks,  “It was a charter issued during the Inquisition, sanctioning the use of torture.”

In the end, the man is spread eagle and stripped to his ragged trousers. Kylo hums, finishing an ankle lock, “It forbid the spilling of blood or loss of limb. Which, as you can imagine -”

Standing, the monk slides his fingers over a dirty jaw, forcing the other to look over at the rack meant to stretch and dislocate, “- led to creative improvising.”

His chuckle is soft but his grip is hard, leaving marks on his companion’s face when he pulls away, “Fortunately, those constraints no longer apply.”

The monk moves with liquid grace, the dark fall of his robes melding with the shadows. His face is stark and pale, serious when he asks, “Where is Skywalker?”

Despite the way he trembles, the man continues his silence, his hands curling into fists. He glares at the wall. Grabbing a fistful of hair, Kylo yanks his head back, looming over him and forcing the other to look up at him, “I know you have the information.”

The man’s pulse is a visible beat in his throat. Kylo tightens his fingers, unflinching as the other spits in his face. It’s a final act of defiance, and although the monk doesn’t recoil, his cheek tightens with a flash of temper, “Tell me where he’s hiding.”

When the man finally speaks, a few breaths later, his voice is hoarse, dry from disuse and trying to cover his tremble, "No matter what you do, I’m not -  I won’t  -”

The words fail him, snuffing out beneath his swallow. Kylo’s smile is slow and dark. “You will.”

—

Blood is still caked beneath Kylo’s nails when he’s summoned by the Abbot. His hands ache, cramped from another afternoon spent flogging sinners, but his gaze is bright and pleased. Entering the chapterhouse, Kylo strides towards the far end of the room, where their leader holds his appointments.

“Reverend Father.”

Snoke is seated, his robes spilled out over his throne, and extends his hand in ritual greeting. Respectfully, the monk bows over it, kissing the ring that signifies his authority. It’s flanked by a row of others, thick with jewels and diamonds, that look heavy on Snoke’s gnarled fingers. Taking a knee, Kylo waits.

“Ren.” The acknowledgement is short, accompanied by the ghost of a smile, “I trust all is well with your duties?”

“Yes.” Satisfaction blooms in Kylo’s chest, forcing him to school his expression lest he be called out for his vanity. From the vague eyebrow the other raises, he isn’t entirely successful. He rises, hands clasped behind his back, “We draw closer to Skywalker everyday.”

Nodding, the Abbot reclines, “I have no doubt you will find the dissenter. It is only a matter of time.”

Despite his pride at the show of confidence, the monk remains silent. Whatever reason Snoke has for calling him into conference, he knows it isn’t merely a check in. For a long moment, the elder contemplates Kylo over his steepled fingers. In the flickering torchlight, his face appears crumpled and sunken, its surface lined with age. The trait is only emphasized by the finery of his robes, the lustrous weave at contrast with his papery skin.

“It’s no secret, Ren, that you are my best disciple,” Around them, the air resonates with prayer, the monks in the cloister conducting their hymns, “As such, I know I can count on you to succeed where others have not.”

Just out of range, the echo of a scream drowns beneath the chanting, silenced before it can escape. 

“The Marquis D’Anjon is a long time ally of this abbey. He is also a personal friend.” For the first time, Kylo notices the opened letter resting on Snoke’s lap, its wax seal stamped with insignia. “It seems he’s having trouble with his heir and has requested our help in the matter.”

It’s Kylo’s turn to lift a brow. Reconditioning is not an unusual task for the Order. Despite the rise of secular living, there are still those with roots in the Church - old families with old blood who hire clergy to help to save their loved ones. Such work is not without its fee, of course, but for patrons such as the Marquis, this is little deterrent.

“According to the Marquis, the boy is a wastrel and spendthrift. He is also a sodomite. Although he’s had numerous tutors, none have been able to produce results. I have assured D’Anjon that you will not have the same dilemma.”

The monk frowns. With his search for his uncle finally gaining traction, the idea of being sent abroad rankles him. There is more important work at hand than spoiled lords and angry fathers.

“Understandably, the Marquis wishes to curb his son before he brings more scandal to their name. He is aware of our methods and has given his consent to allow you free reign with the boy. All he asks is for discretion.”

Kylo’s fingertips begin to prickle, his displeasure growing as Snoke continues.

“The young Earl has just returned from abroad and is to spend the winter at their country estate. You will join him there and remain in residence for the duration of your work.”

In the expectant pause, the monk weighs his response, aware that a direct protest is grounds for disobedience, “There are many skilled monks in the abbey, Father. Many who are qualified for this job.” He ignores the Abbot’s brief surprise at his deference, forging ahead, “With the way things have progressed, I fear my absence will interfere - ”

Snoke flicks his wrist, waving off the concern as one would a fly, “The others will continue in your steed,” He interrupts, “Should something of relevance occur, you will be notified. Until then, the boy is your priority.”

“Perhaps-”

“This is not a request.” Although the words are soft, Snoke’s eyes are shards, glinting in the bruised flesh surrounding them. Snapping his mouth shut, the monk struggles to calm his expression, the hands behind his back curling into fists. Irritation clenches hotly in his stomach, kicking his pulse forward, but he forces his shoulders to relax. He gives a single, curt nod.

“Understood.”

Watching him, the Abbot lets a beat of silence pass, testing the strain of Kylo’s patience, “There is still much for you to learn, Ren. A quick temper is unbecoming - when you return, we will resume your training.”

It needles him that Snoke can read him so easily, and even more that he should bring it up. Swallowing down his displeasure, Kylo dips his head, hoping it looks sufficiently contrite. The frustration is still thick in his throat, but when he raises his face again, his features are smooth, “Sir.”

“You will leave first thing in the morning. Arrangements for your travel have already been made.”

Sensing the dismissal for what it is, the monk bows, “I will not fail.”

“See that you don’t.” Benevolently, the Abbot holds his hand out, allowing Kylo to give his parting respects, “I look forward to news of your success.”

His attention is already on his letters again when Kylo takes his leave, exiting the chapterhouse with silent feet.

—

An oil lamp burns dimly on a wooden table. Along with a crude pallet for sleeping, it’s the only furniture in the small cell, and the only source of light. The room is dark, the evening bleeding into black. A figure kneels at the center of it, his head bowed in prayer and his torso stripped to the waist.

_Our Father, who Art in Heaven_ _  
_ _Hallowed be Thy Name_

In one hand, his rosary dangles from his fist. With his other, the monk brings a cattail whip over his shoulder, splitting open new welts. He strikes as he murmurs, lashing the scarred plane of his back, his jaw grit at the sting. The muscle in his forearm shifts as he works, the air perfumed with the smell of blood.

Not all of the hits break skin, but his body is tense, his size nearly hulking in the modest room. Soon, the runoff from his wounds begins to soak into the robe at his waist, creating a warm, wet sheen.

Kylo lets the discomfort center him. He wills himself to purge the sin from his body, allowing his earthly needs and impulses to weep from the self-inflicted marks. Here, in the dark, with anger still buzzing in his veins, the monk can admit that there is a release in flogging others that he does not find when doing so to himself. The pain keeps him from true meditation, itches at his skin and stokes the volatile cauldron of his emotions. He finds himself growing more irritable, the release of tension not nearly enough to combat his thoughts.  Mortification of the Flesh is a sacred act, not meant to reward but remind, so he brings the cattail back through his final prayer. When he’s done, he’s covered in sweat, his muscles flared. Kylo sets the whip down, rising to his feet with a sign of the cross and an amen.

Tomorrow, he will be ready to begin his work.

Sloshing a rag into a cup of water, he reaches over his shoulder, this time to wash off the excess blood. The sting is familiar, and his face remains impassive as he gives himself a few swipes.

The Abbot is a fool.

He’s grown soft in his old age, the wisdom once so inspiring whittled away beneath the man’s greed. Hellfire and sanctity, punishing the wicked - these are the benedictions the Order swears to abide. They are the solution to a Godless age and the iron fist of the Church. Matters of coin are not their priority, but lately it seems to be Snoke’s.

Power has made him weak. A pity.

It’s yet another problem that will have to wait until he returns. Rolling his shoulders, Kylo paces, resembling a caged animal.

Once, the assignment might have thrilled him. There’s an art to breaking apart sinners, a finesse that’s not unlike his interrogations. He wills himself to focus on the satisfaction, and to remember the surge of accomplishment that comes when striking the right nerve yields what he wants.

His mood is considerably calmer when he slings his robes back in place, settling down to rest for the journey ahead.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Terminology**  
>  The Abbot is the head authority of a monastery.  
> A chapterhouse is the section of a monastery where business and meetings are conducted.
> 
> **Names and titles**  
>  In regards to Brendol and Hux: Peerage often have [subsidiary titles](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subsidiary_title), which is why Brendol is a Marquis but Armitage is an Earl. Theoretically, he will continue to use the title until Brendol dies and he inherits. In this case, Brendol is the Marquis D'Anjon while Armitage is the Earl of Cadezia. For anyone curious where the names came from, D'Anjon is one of the nebulae in the Arkanis sector, and Cadezia is one of the planets. c:


End file.
